Gallery of Londons Retards: Volume 1
BlogToday I was going to write about the drunken 50-something buffoon who followed me around outside Waterloo station as I was on the phone, beatboxing and hissing as close to my phone as he could get. I wasn’t the only one he did this to. At one point a group of guys who may well have been West Philidelphian, born and raised, clealy saw this idiot was annoying me and appeared to be considering approaching him in my defence.
But I’m not going to write about him; I’m going to write about bus drivers.
Now, not all bus drivers are retards. Plenty probably even enjoy life. But some, perhaps a distinct minority, are so fundamentally bad at life they feel the need to pass their insatiable self-loathing onto the poor saps who have to use the service they so bitterly provide.
Today I met just such a twit. The bus stop next to my house is out of service as they’re doing road works around it. On the opposite side of the road there is a temporary bus stop, but not on my side. As the bus pulled up at the red light, I, bags of shopping in hand, asked him to let me off. Every other bus driver has no problem. Not this retard. I just about noticed him shaking his head. He them preceded to ignore my repeated requests, my pointing out that my house was 10 seconds from where we were. Instead, he ignored me and drove up to the next stop, a full 10 minutes walk from my house.
What a complete and total cock.
If I hadn’t’ve had a good day up until that point, I may have considered calling him a churlish folly-fallen miscreant!
But I held my tongue carefully, as he continued to rest his behind the lips he’ll never kiss with.
Until the next episode of Gallery of Retards, toodle-pip and tally-ho!
Nate